In the indifferent-seeming Anastacio, Pringle recognized an unknown quantity.
That, for a certainty, Christopher Foy had not killed Marr, was a positive bit of knowledge which Pringle shared only with the murderer himself and with that murderer's accomplices, if any.

So much was plain, and Pringle felt a curiosity, perhaps pardonable, as to who the murderer really was.
Duty and inclination thus happily wedded, Pringle set himself to goad ferret-eyed Creagan and the heavy-jawed sheriff into unwise speech.
And inattentive Anastacio had a shrewd surmise at Pringle's design.
He knew nothing of the fight at the Gadsden House, but he sensed an unexplained tension--and he knew his chief.
"And this man, too--what about him ?" said Breslin, regarding Pringle with a puzzled face.

"Granted that the Major might have a motive for shielding Foy--he may even believe Foy to be innocent--why should this stranger put himself in danger for Foy ?" "Here, now--none of that!" said Pringle with some asperity.

"I may be a stranger to you, but I'm an old friend of the Major's.

I'm his guest, eating his grub and drinking his baccy; if he sees fit to tell any lies I back him up, of course.